


They say there are 5 ways to show your love (and I don't know any of them)

by mayatheyellowbee



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Humor, I Swear Geralt is Just Being an Idiot, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Little Shit, M/M, Sharing a Bath, and the tiniest bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23453698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayatheyellowbee/pseuds/mayatheyellowbee
Summary: May be if Geralt stopped being so dramatic for a moment he'd finally realize that loving Jaskier is not as hard as he thinks.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 262





	They say there are 5 ways to show your love (and I don't know any of them)

**Author's Note:**

> Let's be honest for a minute, we've all read our fair share of "sharing a bath" Witcher fanfictions, but, hey. Listen. It's never enough.
> 
> This is the first time I write in English, so please tell me if you notice any mistake. I have had the help of wonderful friends to correct me, but I kept changing things, so. I'm not sure about anything here. It's also my first time sharing something on this website, so lots of firsts today!
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt would almost be grateful for the silence that had accompanied him for the last two hours, if it wasn’t for the alarming shade of blue tainting Jaskier’s lips. The clashing of his teeth was the only sound he’d made in a while, and if Geralt, in their first years traveling together, used to dream of a way to shut him up, he’s long since learned that a silent bard is not necessarily a good thing.

Jaskier’s never silent, not even in his sleep or when he had a magical tumor growing in his throat ; and certainly not when he’s asked to be. And Geralt hated that, the constant babbling, the nonsense chattering, the songs. It got on his nerves, filling his ears with useless information. That’s one of the reasons he usually avoids crowded places and parties. But Jaskier never shuts up, and he has grown used to it, years after years. It’s actually a way of making sure his bard is alright. That he isn’t sick, or hurt, or lost too far away from the camp. Geralt doesn’t really listen to everything, of course, he tunes out most of it. But the meaningless noise at the back of his mind keeps him updated on Jaskier’s general whereabouts. There’s no point in telling him to shut it anyway.

The snow had started a little bit after noon, followed by the cold wind, and hasn’t stopped since.  
They were supposed to set up camp before nightfall, but they had rapidly chosen to walk a few more miles to the next inn, so they could use what was left of their coin to at least get a warm room. Geralt tells himself they’ve made the right choice when he sees how miserable Jaskier is right now. It would have been way worse if he had had to sleep outside in his overused bedroll. Even Geralt is cold, the wind biting at his fingers through the leather of his gloves, his witcher mutations supposedly making him less sensitive to extreme temperatures were not really effective after hours of walking in the snow. He had lent his winter coat to Jaskier a while ago, the human only thanking him with a grateful look. He’s already well past his limit of tiredness, his footing unstable on the frozen ground. His feet are probably numb from the cold, the damp leather of his walking boots having lost their waterproof properties a while ago. But he’s not complaining, which shouldn’t be so worrying, however Geralt can’t help but be concerned by the state of the bard. He would let him ride Roach if it meant they would arrive sooner rather than later ; but he himself isn’t riding right now. The dirt road has become dangerous with the snow hiding every bump and hole, so Geralt is leading the mare by her bridle, showing her where she can walk safely, the bard following him, tucked into Roach’s side where he can absorb some of her heat and be somewhat shielded from the worst of the wind. He wouldn’t normally approach her that way, knowing the risks of taking a kick to the shin, having had plenty of experiences with the mare’s petty character. That’s another sign that makes Geralt worry.

At last, the feeble light of torches filters through the fog and the heavy snow, indicating that they have reached their destination. The town is small, but it stands at a crossroad not far from Crow’s Perch, and Geralt knows there is an inn for the travelling merchants going there. At least there was when he last passed by, a couple of decades ago.  
They are the only ones in the streets when they finally reach the wooden fences meant to keep wolves and other threats outside, but the windows of the few humble huts scattered there shine enough light to show them the path to the inn. Even Roach seems to be trotting a little faster in anticipation.

The establishment doesn’t look like much when they catch sight of it. It’s rather small, the walls stained with old piss that smells like it has more alcohol than urine in it, the rotting rooftop barely standing against the strong gusts of wind. It’ll have to do, they’ve slept in worse places than that. Jaskier goes inside to ask for a room while Geralt leads Roach to the narrow stables where a sickly looking mule is munching on wet hay. He makes sure his horse will be comfortable enough for the night and throws the saddlebags with their belongings – and when had Jaskier started to take some space in Geralt’s saddlebags, he couldn’t quite remember, but it was too late to mention it now- over his shoulders and follows the bard inside. He finds him trying to sweettalk the owner into offering them two meals against a little gig, but she isn’t having any of it.

« - My sweet lady, your fine establishment might be a little calm right now » he gestures to the empty room, « but I can assure you that as soon as the word has spread that Jaskier, the infamous minstrel, twice winner of Oxenfurt’s Annual Bardic Competition, is in town, your tables will be full and ale will flow as well as coin. Of course, my classics are sure to be a hit, but I have been working on a new composition that, I must say, might be one of my finest, and I’d be delighted to perform it here as a premiere. You see, it’s about a werewolf with a manhood so virile that...- »

« - There’s no one here to entertain, bard. » the old lady interrupts with a tired shake of her head. « And there won’t be more people comin’ tonight, even if you try luring them in with some singing. No one’s stupid enough to go out with this weather. »

The except for the two of you goes unsaid, but they hear it just as well.

Jaskier looks like he’s about to argue some more, but he closes his mouth and empties his too light purse in the palm of his cold reddened hand to count what remains of his coin. Geralt can see the worried curl of his mouth before he puts a placating smile on it and looks back to the owner with what is usually his most charming expression, but the effect is somehow spoiled by his still chattering teeth.

« - I am sure we can find some type of arrangement. You see, my friend here is quite famous in his own profession. You might have heard about him, they call him the White...- »

Geralt is the one to interrupt him this time, landing a heavy hand on the bard’s shoulder before he can annoy the old lady more than he already has. She looks ready to let them sleep in the stables.

« - Jaskier, come on. We’ll see about dinner later. We’ll take a room. » he glances at his still trembling friend. « And a bath. Hot. »

He adds some of his own coin to the ones Jaskier has already put on the counter. The lady eyes his swords warily, but swoops the gold in her apron’s pocket and calls for a young boy seated near the fireplace at the center of the wall furthest from them. They follow him to a small corridor behind the main hall. There are only three doors there and Geralt can sense that only one of the rooms is occupied. Probably by the owner of that greyish mule they had seen outside earlier.

Once in their room, they stash their things away while the boy fills a small bathtub that looks like it has seen better days. Geralt puts his swords against the wall next to the bed he choses for himself, the one closer to the door, and Jaskier hangs his lute on the back of the rickety chair that sits beside the door. The bard’s still trembling fingers help Geralt discard his leather armour, unbuckling the chest and shoulder plates with practised ease. He doesn’t really need it, has always favoured this particular type of armour especially so he can easily shrug it on and off alone ; witchers don’t have the luxury of squires to polish their swords or wipe their arses like entitled pompous knights have. But Jaskier had learned the hard way to peel Geralt out of his armour when he is wounded or too exhausted to do it himself after a fight, and now he does it without thinking, and the witcher lets him most of the time, because it fills his stomach with something warm he doesn’t really want to think about.

The boy leaves them after he has emptied the last bucket of steaming water into the basin, and Geralt throws a log in the fireplace and sets it alight with a snap of his fingers. A candelabra on the small table and the starting fire are the only sources of light in the room, but the witcher can see just fine as he watches Jaskier struggle to get out of his damp clothes. He usually would be the one to step into the bath first, unless he was covered in blood and guts, in which case Jaskier refuses to go after him and wash in his used water. He enjoys his baths way warmer than the human can bare with, so it has become an obvious agreement that Geralt would sink in the blisteringly hot water and Jaskier would take his turn when the temperature was less aggressive to his delicate skin. Seeing how said delicate skin is now covered in goosebumps however, he reasons it’s be better if Jaskier is first to bathe tonight. He needs to warm up, and fast. The fire he has started is still small and won’t spread any heat for a while yet. He can wait for his turn, witchers don’t get sick anyway.

Now stark naked after having hanged his clothes on the chair and his boots near the fireplace to dry, Jaskier climbs over the rim of the tub. He hisses with pain when the water burns his frozen feet, but he doesn’t shy away and sits quickly. His face twists a few seconds in discomfort and then relaxes totally, the sickly blue finally leaving his lips. The water rises just above his navel, and Geralt can see red spreading on the thin skin of his belly where it’s in contact with the heat. Eyes closed and head hanging back on the edge of the basin, Jaskier lets a content sigh escape.

« - Oh sweet Melitele, how wonderful. Hurry up Geralt, it’s not going to stay warm for long. And grab the soap and lavender oil for me, will you ? » he gestures with a dismissive hand in the general direction of his bag.

Geralt glares at him for a minute but Jaskier doesn’t even deign to open his eyes. He doesn’t move from where he is standing, still in his clothes, his hair dripping quite miserably on the floor, melted snow pooling at his feet.

« - We are not going to take a bath together. » he declares after a while, as if Jaskier was a fool to even suggest it.

Said fool actually lets out a derisive snort, and Geralt starts to think he has been to soft on the bard these last few months – years, even. The human isn’t taking him seriously anymore, getting too confident.

Who is he kidding ? The bard has always been too confident around him. Treating him like he’s a tame wolf.

« - Geralt, I know witchers don’t get sick and everything, but even a big oaf like you wouldn’t be comfortable walking for hours on end in a storm like we just did. So come here and put that pale arse of yours in the water. Enjoy the little things, witcher. »

« - It’s okay, I can wait. It’s a small tub. »

This time Jaskier opens his eyes and turns around to face him, not paying attention to the water splashing against the sides of the tub as he moves, threatening to spill water onto the floor. Which would probably be a good thing, actually, considering how sticky it is.

« -Geralt, don’t tell me you’re trying to protect your virtue. From me. » the bard deadpans.

Geralt grumbles lamely, hoping it will be enough for the other to drop the subject. It’s never enough, though, and his friend has become quite good at reading him, so good that it sometimes gets as unsettling as Yennefer’s mind reading.

« - Oh for fuck’s sake, you troll, I’ve already seen all there is to see and then some. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen parts of your intestine that time when a barghest almost eviscerated you. It doesn’t get more intimate than that, does it ? And you’ve probably seen my dick more than anyone on the Continent, so what’s the problem ? »

They have bathed in streams and lakes together dozens of times before, when the weather is good enough and they feel like it, the sun warming their skin, the cold water raising goosebumps. Geralt’s gaze wanders sometimes, watching Jaskier flounder around. Watching the droplets cling to his hair like diamonds, the freckles scattered on his shoulders, more visible in summer when he’s lingered in the sun a little too long. Geralt watches and stays away, the water conveniently cold so his body doesn’t react to the thoughts that swirls in his mind.

He can feel Jaskier’s gaze sometimes too. It’s almost as good as watching, roaming over his body when the bard thinks he won’t notice, as eager as his own. He knows, if he had the courage to turn around and walk those few unsteady steps on the slippery rocks to kiss Jaskier, there would be only acceptance and hunger coming from the human. But there is always a reason he won’t do it. Too many things he is afraid of waking, should he give in and indulge his desires. It’s easy to lock them somewhere deep beneath the wolf medallion on his chest when they are standing a few feets away in a frozen stream. Actually sharing a bath seems way more dangerous. He knows he’ll be unable to keep the thoughts and the desires and the feelings from drowning him as efficiently as an ekhidna. All those emotions he’d been taught to keep under control, so he could do what he’d been created for - this ability to act with logic and impartiality, that same ability that has given the witchers their reputation of heartless monsters, it all becomes useless under the cornflower blue tenderness of Jaskier’s eyes - he wouldn’t be able to ignore them when they’d be face to face in a tub barely big enough for the two of them.

Those damn blue eyes that are watching him with challenge and amusement right now, as if they know exactly what’s going on inside his head and are waiting to see if he’ll be a coward again, like he always is. He doesn’t want to be a coward. He’s been destroyed and built again so he wouldn’t be one. So he’d hold the bravery that’s needed to fight things humans can’t. Humans deal with emotions all the time. He can do it. He’s not going to be scared of a stupid bard, for fuck’s sake.

So he unlaces his trousers, Jaskier’s eyes staying on his body as he takes his clothes off one by one, slowly, folding them with a care he rarely gives them. It’s as much an answer to Jaskier’s challenge as it’s a way to keep himself from running away. He then makes his way to the bathtub, where the bard is still watching him, smug satisfaction written all over his face. He slowly resumes his earlier postion, neck against the rim of the tub and eyes closed, before he says cheekily :

« - Don’t forget my soap, witcher. »

Geralt growls.

« - Don’t you dare give me orders, human. »

He can’t see Jaskier’s smile but he hears it in the way the bard hums non commitally as an answer. He rummages angrily through the saddlebags and grabs a bar of soap and a bottle of fancy lavender oil he knows the bard uses to wash his hair. He throws them in the bath, barely missing the bard’s head as he does. He doesn’t want him to get more arrogant than he already is. Jaskier only grumbles about how expensive they were while he’s fishing them out of the water, and Geralt quickly sinks into the bath while the other is occupied.

« - Oh, why, welcome to my modest kingdom, good lord. » the bard mocks.

« - You have never been modest a day in your life, bard. » the witcher replies without any heat. The bard humpfs with disdain and starts rubbing soap onto his pinkened skin without giving any more attention to him. Geralt is sitting with his knees poking his chest, trying to keep his body as small as he possibly can so he doesn’t touch the one facing him. The bard has no such qualms, legs half bent, taking most of the space in the tub, humming to himself, oblivious to his friend’s discomfort. The dark hair on his chest is matted with the humidity, his dark nipples glistening in the flickering candle light, drawing Geralt’s gaze back to them every few seconds. His fingers ache with the want to reach, to touch, to follow the rivulet of soapy water that roll down the bard’s collarbone and he’s already regretting his impulsive decision to join him in the bath.

When he is done, Jaskier throws the soap bar to Geralt, who catches it easily but almost drops it when it slips out of his grip.

« - Scrub that grumpy face of yours, witcher. I can barely see your lovely frown under all the dust. »

Then, without a warning, he dunks his head under the water, his whole body slipping even farther into the bath, his right foot sliding against Geralt’s left upper thigh. The witcher stays silent and unmoving, despite his very instinctive wish to jump out of the tub and flee the room, knowing that shying away will only make the bard laugh at his expense again. They stay like this for a few seconds, the soap bar crumbling in his death grip, the lines of the distracting body blurred by the undulating water, the bubbles reaching the surface the only sound in the room.  
Jaskier takes a deep lungful of air when he sits back, his foot sliding against Geralt again and staying close, their ankles touching with every move. He doesn’t seem to notice it, scrubbing his hair with single minded focus. He reaches over the edge of the tub and grabs the lavender oil he left there, uncorking it and dropping some of it into the palm of his hand. The scent immediately reaches Geralt’s nostrils, filling his head with the floral aroma he has smelled, albeit less strongly, on Jaskier before. The bard lovingly washes his hair, diving under water to rinse it, and ruffles it once he is done to shake most of the water off. It makes him look younger, bringing Geralt back to their first meeting, when the human had been barely twenty. He hasn’t changed much, except for the laughing lines at the crinkle of his eyes. Geralt is grateful that he’s had the chance to see his friend grow into the man he is today, even if it also means that he’ll see him get old, when he himself will stay untouched by the years, and then he’ll be left alone with memories of cheerful melodies and lavender oil.

Oh, but he can’t think about that now. Not ever, if he can help it. That’s exactly why he didn’t want to share this bath in the first place. It makes him too aware of what he could have, of what he already has, and what he’ll inevitably lose one day.

Only when he’s done with his beauty routine does Jaskier turn his attention back to the witcher. He barely gives him a glance before he bursts out of laughter.

« - You look as relaxed as a Skellig man in a Cedarian silk shop ! »

He has been a fool to think Jaskier wouldn’t mock him if he stayed still. Jaskier always finds a reason to make fun of him, as if the witcher couldn’t snap his neck in two if he so desired. Not that he’d do it, but he could. The bard ought to know that. But Geralt has never sensed fear from him, not directed at him anyway. He couldn’t have put up with the human more than a day if he had. At least during the first few years Jaskier had kept some sort of respectful distance between them, if he could call ‘taunting him from a few meters away and shutting up only when his life was explicitly endangered’ respectful distance. He regularly toed the line, testing the boundaries, pushing them slowly without Geralt noticing when it actually happened, stepping back at the first hint of real anger but always coming back. He now seemed to take Geralt’s warning growls as if it was the tantrum of a slightly annoying but cute pup.

But as it happens, Jaskier was right : his shoulders are hunched and sore with tension, resisting the appeasing effects of the water. Anger suddenly flares in his chest. He blames the stupid human for all of it, always so thoughtless, touching him freely, his body shamelessly on display like a very mouth watering forbidden treat, the witcher forced to observe the show, restraining every overwhelming pulsion he has to reach and touch. Thankfully is dick hasn’t gotten more than half hard, easily hidden between his legs as long as he doesn’t move too much. All the troubling thoughts and conflicting emotions actually helps to keep him from embarrassing himself. Small mercies.

He grunts gruffly as he starts scrubbing away the dirt on his skin. The bard seems offended when he sees what’s left of his expensive soap, but he doesn’t say a word as Geralt bares his teeth and snarls at him. Good. He still has some sense of preservation after all.

Despite his sour mood, the task of cleaning himselft soothes him. The soap is soft against his raised scars, old and new ones. It doesn’t have as strong a scent as Jaskier’s hair oil and it doesn’t overwhelm his senses.

« - You should wash your hair too. I think a bit of nekker is stuck there. And we haven’t seen nekkers in two weeks. »  
Geralt gives him a half hearted glare, tired of fighting, and carefully slides into the water, letting his senses be drowned by calm and warmth. He can only hear muted sounds, Jaskier’s heartbeat and his own, slower one, the pounding of blood in his ears. He loves beeing underwater, the peacefulness, the respite of it, his senses narrowed down, but he rarely gets to swim as much as he’d like, unless it’s for a contract. And fighting drowners and sirens doesn’t usually have such a relaxing effect somehow.  
Here, out of Jaskier’s blue blue gaze, his thoughts finally settle. He can still feel the bard’s body near his own, but it isn’t as distracting. It’s comforting, even, to have someone he trusts – yes, trust, as stupid as it sounds – watch over him when he is this vulnerable.

But even with his witcher’s mutations he can’t stay underwater forever. He gathers himself and emerges as he breathes out.

« - I thought you had fallen asleep down there. Do witchers breathe underwater ? That’d be a really cool detail to add to one of my songs. »

« - If I could breathe underwater I would have gotten the rucksack full of very rare herbs you dropped in the Pontar last time. »

« - Don’t live in the past, Geralt. It’ll rot your heart. »

The witcher lets out an amused huff. Friendly banter is good. Familiar. He’s finally starting to relax, the tension seeping out of him with the gentle waves rippling against his skin. He lets his feet slide a little further, mirroring Jaskier’s position. The bard smiles but doesn’t say anything, letting his hands caress the water lightly.  
Geralt starts brushing his hair, his fingers getting stuck in knots that wouldn’t have been here if he’d done it sooner. Some of them are matted with mud and dust and probably some blood from his last fight with wolves, even if he’s washed the most of it in the freezing water of a river. He grows more and more frustrated with the sharp pain going through his skull every time he’s a little too harsh with a resisting knot. One of them is particularly hard to undo, and he is growling with frustration by the time Jaskier intervenes.

« - I don’t think you’ll be able to untangle this one. It needs to be cut or you’re going to lose your fingers in there. I have a pair of scissors in my bag if you...- »

« - No cutting ! » Geralt snaps, startling the bard. He hadn’t intended to be so rough, and the other is watching him with surprise.

« - … very well then, no cutting. » Jaskier says carefully after a while. He watches Geralt struggle for a few more minutes before taking pity on him. He scoots closer with an exagerated sigh, sliding until he is sitting next to Geralt instead of across from him. When the witcher doesn’t react and keeps staring at him, he sighs again and waves his hand with exasperation.

« - Come on, I’ll do it, before you Igni your own head. You have no finesse. You’ll be bald before you reach two hundred years old if you keep this up. »

Geralt is going to say no, really, he is. He opens his mouth to tell the bard to mind his own business but a hand that isn’t his suddenly is in his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp lightly, and the words leaves his brain as electricity runs down his spine directly to his cock.

« - Give me some space, muscle man. I can’t do shit from here. » says Jaskier with a demanding tap to his shoulder.

He obediently moves as the bard manhandles him, which should be impossible, but he is too stunned to resist. Their movements make the water slosh over the edge of the tub and finally overflows on the dirty floor. Geralt finds himself sitting between the bard’s spread legs, his back to him. They don’t touch except for the gentle hands in his hair, but he can feel Jaskier’s presence all around him. His shoulders went tense again as he realised their current position, but the calm and carefulness of the bard quickly ease him back into a more relaxed state.

« - Your hair is getting really long though, you definitely should get a haircut. There’s this barber in Oxenfurt who is just a wonder. If we keep heading east we could be there in a week. It’s been a long time since we’ve been in a town with more than 15 inhabitants and I need some strings for my lute. Roach could use new shoes too... »

Geralt is dozing off, lulled by the soft voice, barely listening to what Jaskier is actually saying, mumbling from time to time when his friend seems to expect an answer. The fingers are delicately untangling the knots, barely tugging on his hair, nails scratching deliciously against his scalp from time to time, raising goosebumps on his skin. His eyes are closed and his head is hanging between his shoulders, basking in the bards sweet attentions. It isn’t often that someone offers to take care of him. Whores massage him sometimes if he promises a bonus in the end. Yennefer had only offered him a bath so she could manipulate him. Geralt of Rivia isn’t a man people want to take care of and he’s realized that long ago. But Jaskier does take care of him. He offers him ales when his gigs are successful, which is more and more often now. He helps him stitch his wounds after a fight, even though Geralt knows he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. And, as much as the witcher hates to admit it, his stupid songs made pople less scared of him, more prone to ask for his help. None of his recent contracts had ended with a pay smaller than agreed, which was a nice change.  
Jaskier takes care of him in all the ways in knows how, in all the ways he knows Geralt will let him. And Geralt accepts a great deal more from the bard than he has ever accepted from anyone. He doesn’t know why. The bard had grown on him, like… like mold.

He isn’t sure it’s the best analogy, but he isn’t the one who bends words to his will as a living after all.

And then Geralt realizes one thing. It’s old news, really, but he has never given it much thought before. He can’t really think of anything he’s done to show the bard he cares about him in return. Sure, he protects him from cuckolded husbands or jealous musicians. He makes sure he doesn’t get killed by monsters. He hunts for him when they’re traveling together. He provides him with stories to put into songs, even though Jaskier makes up most of it anyway. That’s all, really. There’s nothing else he can think of.

Geralt feels unease creep in his mind. The deal seems unbalanced somehow. Jaskier has followed him without asking his permission all those years ago and has never left him, not for long, not even when Geralt had tried to get rid of him in all the ways he could think of, abandoning him in villages, in cities, even in the forest once – he had returned an hour later, the guilt too great, and the bard was waiting for him, lute case on his lap, disappointment in his eyes. He had never done it again.  
He had yelled at him, called him awful things, even hit him once or twice. He’d been terribly mean. And still, the bard stayed, and followed, and cared for him. Geralt’s conscience had always been fine as long as he kept the bard alive and safe, even as he had started to call him his friend and to hum along when he was singing and to feel lonely when he wasn’t here. They have traveled together for the better part of two decades and Jaskier is without question the most important person in his life right now. Not that he’d ever said as much out loud.  
But that’s the problem isn’t it ? He’s never told Jaskier how important he is to him. He doesn’t know how to say it. He fears that may be the human will get tired of giving without getting anything back and that he’ll leave him. But Geralt isn’t sure what he has to give other than his protection and the inspiration for Jaskier’s songs.  
He wants to show his gratitude, his appreciation, show Jaskier how much he matters to him, so that the bard will stay and keep being nice to him. It’s selfish, he knows, but he isn’t sure he could cope with the solitude now he has got used to Jaskier’s attentions.

Lost in his thoughts, it takes some time for him to realize Jaskier has finished brushing his hair and is now just playing with some silvery strands while humming softly. Everytime his fingers graze behing his ears or the nape of his neck Geralt feels something like melting honey rolling through his whole body. He hasn’t felt that good in years. His own hands have found their way to Jaskier’s ankles without him even noticing. His thumbs are rubbing the protruding bones there in slow circles, a feather light touch, but far more than he’s ever allowed himself before. Maybe Jaskier would understand his gratitude without him actually having to say it out loud.

He lets his hands go a little higher, slowly, so the bard can move if he wants to, and starts massaging the plump flesh of his calves, chasing the bundle of nerves that he knows would be there after days of walking without a true break. When he finds one, he presses harder, his thumb digging in the soft spot, and Jaskier lets out a hissing sound, pained, trying to tear his leg out of the witcher’s grasp. When Geralt doesn’t let go, he calms down but tugs on his hair to show his disapproval. Geralt resumes his ministrations with a little bit more carefulness, trying to be as gentle as his brute hands can be. The bard’s legs still twitches from time to time when he hits a sensitive spot, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s even stopped humming, and the silence surrounds them comfortably, only disrupted by the sounds of the water moving with them and the wind outside. The hands in Geralt’s hair have stopped moving and are now resting lightly on his shoulders, the bard’s breath stuttering and brushing the wet skin of his back, cooling the droplets of mixed sweat and water clinging there.

When he’s done with the calves, Geralt hesitantly drags his hands higher to rest on the top of Jaskier’s thighs, asking for permission. He hears a stifled moan and Jaskier’s forehead comes to rest in the crook of his neck, which he takes as an assent, and starts massaging the flesh under his fingers.  
He can smell something spicy in Jaskier’s scent, like cinnamon. Lust. It’s not the first time he smells it on the bard. When a pretty barmaid or a handsome lord eyes him with envy in a tavern. When he comes back late into the room he shares with Geralt. In the morning when he wakes up from a heated dream. When they bathe in a stream together. Or sometimes, when they share a bed and they wake up in the middle of the night, wrapped around each other. It has happened once or twice, their hands fumbling, half asleep, caressing mindlessly, until one of them is awake enough to tear himself away. The scent of lust and desire is dizzyingly heady in those moments. They never talk about it afterwards.

Geralt doesn’t feel the need to talk now. He’s happy Jaskier doesn’t either. He likes hearing the little puffs of breath coming out of the bard and the beat of his heart, slightly faster than normal but not worryingly so. He lets the mingled smell of cinnamon and lavender fill his head so much he can taste it. Jaskier gets closer, sliding his arms around him slowly, hesitantly. Geralt doesn’t move, too scared the bard would misinterpret any movement. His hands keep massaging, thumbs tracing red lines on the soft inner thighs. Finally, Jaskier lets his arms hug tightly around the witcher, one resting across his chest, the other one on his stomach, just under the water. Delicate fingers caress the thin skin of his ribs. They move a little to arrange themselves in a more comfortable position, and Geralts lies back on Jaskier’s chest, his head falling to the bard’s shoulder. They stay like that for a while, the water cooling around them. The scent of lust and arousal is faint now, and Geralt knows they’re both too tired to do anything about it anyway. But it’s good like that, comfortable, peaceful. He wants to stay in this position until their skins shrivel. Jaskier doesn’t seem in a hurry to move either, his fingers playing with Geralt’s chest hair. The bard’s nose nudges his temple as he speaks softly.

« - You really need to get a haircut though, or I swear I’ll braid your hair like a Temerian princess while you sleep. »

His voice is thick with exhaustion and satisfaction, and Geralt huffs a laugh, his eyes closed with pleasure.

« - Later. »

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again!  
> I hope you enjoyed my first contribution to this fandom. I'm pretty sure it won't be the last, because those two make me very soft okay.


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